Partners in Crime: Two Logan and Steel Short Stories (6 page)

‘The car wouldn’t start.’

‘Well, that’s not—’

‘It’s not even my car!’ Logan pointed at the terminally ill Peugot, with Badger sitting in the back. ‘It’s this moron’s.’

The wee man waved.

Steel stuck up two fingers at him. ‘Sodding cheese-flavoured arse-monkeys... And Kevin McGregregor went after him?’

‘It’s not my fault the plan was rubbish.’

‘Hey,
my
bit of the plan went perfect, OK? I go in; I make a song and dance about some idiot in a dented Peugeot nearly running me off the road, grabbing a fishing boat and sodding off into the storm; and pop goes the Weasel – right out the front door. It’s
your
bit that went bum-shaped.’

‘The bloody – car – wouldn’t – start!’

‘Shiteholes...’ She chewed at her finger for a moment. ‘We need a boat, or something.’

Screw that.

‘Could we not just drive back up the road to where we had tea? That’s where the—’

‘And
then
what? You want to swim out to the boat and arrest them? Cos I’m no’ bloody doing it. We need a boat.’

‘Will you hurry up?’ Steel marched up and down the pontoon attached to the tiny harbour’s wall. ‘They’ll be miles away by now!’

Badger sat up and scowled at her from the wheelhouse of a small rust-streaked fishing boat with ‘C
ATRIONA’S
H
ARVEST
’ painted along the side. Creels made a smelly pyramid in the back, coils of dirty rope and scuffed pink buoys piled alongside them. ‘I’ve never hotwired one of these things before. A Ford Cortina I could do you in three minutes flat, this...’ He waved a hand. ‘This is a pain in the backside.’

‘My
boot
’ll be a pain in your backside if you don’t—’

The engine growled and puttered into life. Badger gave himself a round of applause. ‘Ha!’

‘About bloody time.’ Steel scrambled aboard, then turned and waved at Logan. ‘Get a move on!’

‘Can’t get through.’ Logan slipped the phone back in his pocket. ‘Mobile signal keeps cutting out.’

Badger pointed through the wheelhouse window. ‘Untie the rope thing at the pointy end and chuck it in the boat. Do the one at the back too.’

Logan stared at him. ‘“Pointy end”? Thought you said you knew what you’re doing.’

Steel wrapped her scarf around her head, until only her eyes and nose were visible. ‘Laz, get your arse on this boat right now, or I swear to God...’

He untied the ‘pointy end’ then did the same with the line at the stern, before half jumping, half falling into the back of the boat. Up close the creels stank of stale fish and rotting onion.

Badger fiddled with the controls. Nothing happened. A bit more fiddling, and the boat thumped backwards into the pontoon with a loud crunch.

Steel grabbed the wheelhouse wall. ‘Other way, you daft sod!’

‘Right...’ The boat surged forwards this time, then around to the left as he twirled the wheel, heading out into the bay. ‘Like riding a bike.’

The sea churned like a hangover – up and down, left and right, the boat making a wobbly corkscrew path through the concrete-coloured waves. Logan tightened the padded orange lifejacket he’d found in a little locker. The deck was cold and damp beneath his bum as he sat with his back to the railing, holding on with both hands as the tiny
Catriona’s Harvest
juddered through the storm.

Steel sat opposite, eyes closed, legs splayed, teeth gritted. ‘Urgh...’

He narrowed his eyes at her, having to shout over the roar of the engine. ‘You and your bloody Plan B!’

Standing in the wheelhouse, Badger turned and grinned at them. ‘Course, you’ve got to watch these waters like a hawk. Reefs and rocks everywhere. Normal charts cover about a hundred miles – here you’re lucky if you get twenty. No wonder Jimmy’s son-in-law got into trouble. Got to keep your—’ The whole boat juddered, as if a big underwater fist had slammed into it. ‘Oops.’ And then they were going straight again.

Steel kept her face screwed tight shut. ‘If we sink I’ll sodding kill you.’

‘Not much further.’

‘You said that twenty minutes ago!’

And the sea raged on.

‘There! Told you we’d make it.’ Badger clung onto the wheel with one hand, pointing with the other. To the left, Jura rose in hilly bumps of green and brown; to the right the Sound of Jura was a heaving mass of grey water; and straight ahead was the little fishing boat with the red wheelhouse, moored just off Inverlussa beach. Kevin McGregor’s rigid inflatable was tied up alongside, bobbing and dipping.

Jimmy the Weasel cowered in the back of the fishing boat, arms over his head, staggering as the vessel lurched from one trough to the other. Kevin McGregor clambered over the side, back into the inflatable. Raised his arm, as if he was about to give the Weasel a telling off.

A hard
pop
broke across the waves.

The back of Jimmy’s head puffed out in a cloud of bright red, shining against the dark afternoon, before the wind whipped it away.

Badger squealed, then ducked down behind the wheel.

Jimmy’s body rocked with the next wave, then crashed forward onto the deck.

‘Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit...’

Logan hauled out the binoculars and focussed on the bobbing fishing boat. ‘Think he’s dead?’

‘Well...’ Steel made a little humming noise. ‘If no’ he’ll save a fortune on hats.’

Kevin McGregor leaned over the side of his inflatable and did something with the bright-orange buoy.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘We should board him. Ram the inflatable.’

Badger peered out from the wheelhouse. ‘He’s got a gun!’

‘Don’t be such a Jessie.’ Steel fiddled with her lifejacket. ‘Long as we stay down, we’ll be OK, right?’

Logan rapped his knuckles against the
Catriona’s Harvest
’s hull. Might be thick enough to stop a bullet. Probably. Maybe. ‘Erm...’

The outboard roar of Kevin McGregor’s engine cut through the storm, and the rigid inflatable eased away from Lussa Bay. Going a lot slower than it had leaving Craighouse harbour.

Badger knelt in the wheelhouse, peeking over the bulwark. ‘Boat’s weighted down... He’s got the two full pods. That’s why he was following Jimmy – the thieving git’s nabbed our drugs!’

Even towing two-thirds of a ton of underwater heroin, Kevin McGregor’s inflatable was still faster than
Catriona’s Harvest
. When they finally puttered back into Craighouse harbour, the inflatable was abandoned on the slipway. The rust-flecked blue Transit sat in front of it, the back doors open as Kevin McDonald winched the second pod inside.

He creaked the doors shut, dragging his left leg. The orange overalls were stained scarlet from knee to ankle.

Logan scrambled onto the jetty, not bothering to tie the boat up.

Steel clambered out after him, turned and pointed back into the wheelhouse. ‘You, Badger Boy:
stay
. If I have to come looking for you, you’ll bloody well know about it.’

The wind whipped spray off the curling waves, throwing it in Logan’s face as he hurried ashore.

Streetlights made golden spheres in the driving rain. The road was deserted, except for a couple of parked cars and a mob of grumpy seagulls – hunkered down on the guttering of the distillery buildings, watching the world with glittering eyes.

Logan turned the corner of the village shop and skidded to a halt. Staring. Someone was lying face down on the road between the hotel and the distillery. Arms and legs splayed out in a broken starfish. A pair of thick-rimmed glasses lying just out of reach. Face pale and slack. A slick of dark red oozing downhill towards the sea.

The other Riley sister was crumpled in front of the distillery shop, the back of her head gone the same way as Jimmy the Weasel’s.

Maybe that’s why all the gulls were there – waiting for an early dinner?

No wonder the bloody street was deserted.

Steel puffed to a halt beside Logan. ‘What? Why have we stopped?’

He pointed.

‘Oh ...
arse
. Do you think anyone noticed?’

Logan stared at her. ‘Yes, I think someone might
just
have noticed a bloody gunfight in the middle of the street, right outside the hotel bar.’

‘Susan’s going to kill me...’

Kevin McGregor hobbled around to the side of the Transit van.

Logan took a deep breath and stepped onto the road. Pulled out his warrant card and walked towards the van. ‘Police! Put your weapon down and keep your hands where I can see them.’

McGregor froze, halfway through hauling the driver’s door open. Then turned. ‘Sling your hook, before you get hurt.’

‘Come on Kevin, it’s over. You know it’s over.’

McGregor slammed his hand on the side of the van. Logan flinched. The seagulls stirred. Probably wondering if they’d get police officer for starters.

‘I came back from the dead for this. It’s not over till I say so.’ He pointed at DI Steel’s little MX-5. ‘That’s your car, right? Saw you sitting in it, watching the hotel.’

‘Kevin McGregor, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murders of James Weasdale, Brigid Riley, and Niamh Riley, you— Oh God!’

McGregor’s gun barked twice and the MX-5’s front tyres exploded in shreds of black rubber. Then he turned and blew out the tyres of the Rileys’ camper van, and the Toyota pick-up parked opposite. The noise was deafening, the smell of fireworks seeping away into the rain.

‘Like I said: it’s not over till I say it is.’ He dragged himself up into the Transit van, heaving his leg over the seat, teeth gritted. Then slammed the door.

Steel appeared at Logan’s shoulder. ‘My car... The... He shot my sodding car!’

Kevin McGregor grinned, gave them a wave, then put the van in gear.

A moment of utter silence. Then it was as if the whole world bellowed. The Transit van bucked, riding a mushroom of boiling orange flame, the cab expanding – a balloon of rusty blue metal and safety glass. And then the
noise
: it was like being smacked in the chest with a sledgehammer, followed by a blast of hot air that tore the ground from under Logan’s feet and sent him crashing sideways against DI Steel.

The van clattered back to the blackened tarmac, bounced, fell onto its side, the rear doors twenty yards away.

A pall of white dust filled the air above it, drifting in the wind as the seagulls leapt shrieking from the distillery roof. The cloud caught them above the shop. They lurched, swooped, bumped into each other, and the walls, and the slates, then tumbled to the road. Lying on their backs, legs and wings twitching as the Transit van burned. Doped out of their tiny little minds.

Logan rolled onto his front and levered himself to his knees, ears ringing.

Steel coughed, spluttered, groaned. ‘SODDING HELL...’

‘WHAT?’

‘THINK I BROKE MY ARSE...’ She dug a finger into her ear and jiggled it about. ‘CAN YOU HEAR THAT?’

The Transit van’s front bumper clanged back down against the road, lying amongst the stoned seagulls.

Logan clutched at the ancient red telephone box, pulling himself up on wobbly feet. ‘That’s what happens when you mess with a pair of paramilitary nut-jobs who’ve got a thing for explosives.’

‘HELP ME UP.’

He hauled her to her feet. ‘Stop yelling at me.’

‘WHAT?’

Christ. ‘Never mind.’

‘I CAN’T HEAR YOU.’

The door to the hotel bar swung open and a figure in jeans and a hooded top stepped out onto the stone balcony, her caramel-coloured hair pulled back in a ponytail: Susan. She stared at the burning wreckage in the middle of the road, then at the MX-5 with its two blown-out front tyres. Then at DI Steel: standing next to Logan with her legs planted wide apart, one hand holding onto his arm, as if the tarmac was bobbing about on rough seas.

Susan’s eyes narrowed. She stuck her fists on her hips. ‘Roberta Steel, what the
bloody
hell have you been up to?’